The Sadstuck Chronicles
by Obiwanakin
Summary: A dump for drabbles of sadstuck-kind. Most will contain either drug use, suicide, unrequited love, etc.
1. Only Watch

Your name is Nepeta Leijon, and you can only watch.

You get that you aren't his type. It's astoundingly obvious. You just didn't think that she was his type either. She was weird and loud, she challenged him. But maybe that was what he liked.

Maybe you should try to be more like Terezi, too.

But I don't think I could do that, you think as you watch her hanging off his arm, giggling in that creepy way she does. You weren't aggressive like her. You were sweet and soft-spoken, not to mention a tad bit strange.

Okay, a lot bit strange.

That was probably why Karkat didn't like you like you liked him. That was probably why he was so mean to you. He thought you were a freak, a cat-obsessed, roleplaying freak.

You bite your lip to keep the tears in your watery eyes from spilling as you watch the happy couple share a kiss.

"You okay there, Nep?" Equius asks, laying a large but comforting hand on your shoulder.

You force yourself to nod and smile. "Yes, purr-fect."

You were so not, though. You were as unhappy as unhappy could get. You were destined to sit on the sidelines while the love of your life wandered around so in love with his girl. There was no love in it for you.

You could only watch.


	2. Ready to Fall

Your name is Dave Strider, and you're teetering on the edge, both literally and figuratively.

The rooftop asphalt is hot against the soles of your sneakers, the sun is blaring down on your freckled skin. There isn't a cloud in the sky on this perfect day.

Yeah, fucking _perfect_.

Just moments ago you'd been talking to the love of your life, the apple of your eye, John Egbert. Everything was going as it normally did. You two were throwing banter back and forth (TG: come on john just admit it EB: no, dave! i do not have a mancrush on nicolas cage!) like you always did. Then out of nowhere, John asked you if you had your eye on anyone.

And for some ungodly reason, you had told him the truth.

It wasn't some big, flamboyant confession. It was merely 'you.' John hadn't replied for a long time, long enough time for you to lose your shit by means of screaming profanities at yourself and punching walls. When he finally replied, what you got in return for your admitted feelings was

**EB:** what the fuck.

That's how you ended up here on the roof, looking down at the traffic from atop your apartment complex. Your heart felt like a broken mess in your chest, pumping not only blood throughout your body, but pain and hurt and sadness. It's not like you weren't expecting it, it's just that the real thing, the rejection actually occurring, hurt far more than you'd imagined it would.

You take off your shades and experimentally drop them off the side. You watch them fall, fall, fall until they're a miniscule dot clattering to pieces on the sidewalk. Behind you, your phone buzzes repeatedly. Ignoring it, you lift one foot over the edge, then lean forward until you're soaring face-first to the ground.

**EB:** what the fuck.

**EB:** i mean, oh my god

**EB:** this is so great, dave. you don't even know

**EB:** i really like you, like really really like you

**EB:** you there?

**EB:** dave?


	3. The Balance

Your name is Dave Strider,

and in front of you sits your life in the balance.

There on the desk, standing under the lamplight like an announcer on a stage, is a pill bottle and a glass of scotch with ice. You could just drink the scotch, get a buzz going, then pass out in your bed like every other night, then wake up the next day feeling shitty. Or, you could pop back a handful of the pills, then drink the scotch and pass out in your bed, only you wouldn't wake up. It'd be like a permanent snooze button, no rinsing and repeating ever again.

You're leaning heavily towards the pills.

You've been at this routine for several weeks now, watching your life hang in the balance like it was some sort of sick game. Now you weren't doing this for no reason, though it could be seen that way. Truthfully, you just didn't want to be alive anymore. You saw no point in it. You got up every morning, went to work, came home, drank yourself into a stupor, then stared at the scotch and pills on your desk. You were absolutely sick of that routine.

You wanted more to look forward to, more to live for.

You wanted your childhood friend John to love you with the same unconditional love that you held for him, but that was out of the question. The man was happily married and the most contact the two of you had had in the past three years was a Christmas card thrown in somewhere.

You wanted your brother back, the brother you'd looked at through baby eyes as a hero. Bro still was a hero, at least to you. Sometimes, when you were drunk enough, you'd pretend to spar with him in the kitchen. It wasn't the same, though, not without Bro himself and not without the hot cement of the apartment complex roof.

You wanted to go back in time, to fix all of your fuck-ups. If you could go back and return the money you'd stolen from the purse of some woman on the subway, you would. If you could go back and unbreak that hotel room mirror you'd punched on a particularly reckless night, you would. If you could go back and stop the game that had led you to this meaningless life, you definitely would.

But you could have none of the things you wanted, so you sat staring at the balance.

You reach your hand forward, and instead of grabbing the scotch, you grab the bottle of pills, unscrewing the cap while you smile wryly to yourself.


End file.
